Fake Fan Fiction ❯ Silver Key ❯ The Book ( Chapter 1 )

A/N - Hi, everyone! This is the first fanfic I've ever written! It's a crossover of sorts, involving my own characters (well, just one, I guess) and the setting of one of my stories, which has yet to be published. There's a lot of exposition in the story, which I know is bad style and I normally wouldn't use, but I had this story in my head and I know that other people don't know the plot or milieu of my original story, so I had to insert some sort of clunky explanations. I hope I won't be judged too harshly **sweatdrop**

Warnings: angst, violence, lime in later chapters.

Disclaimer: I don't own JJ, Sanami Matoh does. I do own Michael Slaiby,
Alessandretta degli Argenti and the "Silver Key" story arc and setting
in which most of this fic occurs.

Silver Key

by BluePlastic

JJ shifted uncomfortably in his chair, trying to focus on the files in front of him through a thick haze of exhaustion. His joints burned with pain, the urge to cry out whenever he moved nearly overcoming the limits of his stoicism.

"Hey, JJ," Drake said sleepily, rubbing his eyes as he walked into their office. "You're here early."

"Yeah, I had a lot of stuff to read through. I meant to do it last night, but I was really tired."

Drake put his armload of papers down, a look of shock passing over his
face. "You were tired? Really?"

"I know it seems less possible than aliens landing on your head, but yes, I get tired sometimes," JJ said teasingly.

Drake took a closer look at his partner, really taking in the circles under his eyes and the pallor that had invaded his face. "You look like crap, man."

"You're looking quite dashing yourself, Drake," JJ said, his tone of high sarcasm somewhat marred by the coughing fit that followed.

Drake rushed out of the office and across the hall, quickly filling a small cup at the water cooler and bringing it to JJ. "You ok, man?"

JJ sucked down all the water in one gulp. "Thanks," he wheezed, struggling to catch his breath.

"Seriously, JJ, are you alright? Maybe you should go home and rest. If you push yourself, you'll just get sicker."

JJ's heart warmed at the tone of genuine concern in his partner's voice, thoughts of angling for a hug next chased out of his mind by the desire to not give Drake whatever sickness he was suffering from. "Maybe," he admitted. "There's so much to do, though..."

"Don't worry about it. I'll cover for ya," Drake said with a wink. "Go home and rest. I'll tell the chief that you have the plague and that we should sacrifice a goat to protect the precinct. You think he'd like that?"

"I think he'd kick you into next week. Too bad I won't be here to watch," JJ said, grinning despite the flares of pain that went through his knees as he stood up. He put on his coat, buttoning it with aching fingers, and slung his bright blue scarf around his neck. "Drake? Thanks
a lot."

"Hey, no problem, man," Drake said with a grin. "Call me up if you need
anything."

***

JJ trudged up the stairs to his apartment, cheeks still burning from the harsh bite of the February air. He cursed the broken elevator as he ascended five floors, head swimming all the while. Trust me to get the flu when no one else has it, he thought bitterly.

He opened the door to his apartment, pushing aside the small stack of junk mail that had pooled under the mail slot with his foot as he entered the dim, silent living room and kicked off his shoes.
Heading into the bedroom, he got out of his work clothes and in a soft pair of light blue flannel pajamas which his mom had given him for Christmas several years ago and which he always donned when he was sick.
He walked over to the bathroom, enjoying the contrast of the cool tiles under his feet with the unhealthy warmth that was creeping through his body. He brushed his teeth, trying to avoid his own gaze in the mirror. He hated seeing himself when sickness had eaten away at the normal
bright chipperness in his face. Even though he knew it was only temporary, he always felt a chill, like he was looking into the eyes of a dead person.
He walked over to the living room bookshelf, searching the rows of neatly arranged volumes for something easy that he hadn't read eighteen times already. His eyes finally settled on a digest-sized, glossy volume with a dark blue spine that he didn't immediately recognize.
He pulled it from the row, eyes brightening with recognition as soon as he saw the cover, from which a green eyed man with black hair stared piercingly, clutching to his chest the faint, ghostly form of a young woman with long blue hair. Printed in silver letters above the figures
were the words "Silver Key", and below and to the right, "Written by Sarah F. Starr/Art by Yukiko Nakajima".
"C'mon take it, you'll like it," his cousin had urged, pressing the book into his hands.
"I don't like this type of thing, Hannah," he had complained, pushing it back towards her. "I don't like comic books."
"This one's about a cop though! He's like, in the FBI, but it's the future! And isn't he cute?"

"He is cute, I'll give her that," he muttered to himself, taking the book and walking with it into the bedroom. He settled into bed, drawing the covers over himself and curling up against the bank of fluffy pillows before opening it and beginning to scan over the pages, quickly becoming engrossed by the story and the accompanying artwork.

Suddenly, he felt a shock go through his body, a jarring vibration followed by pain in his chest and his face. He gasped for air against a hard surface that was so close to his mouth that he could taste its thick, oily scent. "What the fuck?" he groaned, bracing his hands against the roughness of this surface and struggling to his feet.

He found himself standing on a dimly lit street, the concrete sidewalk from which he had just arisen newly paved and unmarred by cracks. Tall buildings surrounded him, anonymous and glittering, betraying precious little about where he was or how he had arrived there as he walked on, looking for clues.

A white building to his right caught his eye, swooping in a familiar, swaybacked way into the sky, the word "Grace" posted on its front in tall letters. //The Grace building...does that mean..//

A few steps forward confirmed what he had been thinking as the short, brick and grey exterior of a blocks-wide building sprawled into his vision. //Grand Central...// He calculated in his head for a moment, trying to think how on earth he got here from his apartment in Queens

and didn't remember the journey, which would have necessitated several subway line transfers and a good deal of walking.

A low voice hissed from a dark place to his left. "Hey, little boy, where's your off, huh? What you doin' here all alone?"

Inured to the harsher denizens of the city by years spent as a cop and still more years of living alone in a somewhat sketchy neighborhood, he ignored the voice and kept walking. He approached the corner of 42nd Street and crossed, weaving between cars, relying on luck and timing to carry him to the other side safely. He stepped quickly to the doors that led into Grand Central Station, pulling one open and walking inside.

The first thing he noticed was the silence - a lack of noise so pronounced that a faint hum began in his ears as his brain endeavored to prove that all circuits were indeed online and functional. As he entered the large central room of the station, he gasped to see it almost completely empty. There were always people in Grand Central, even in the middle of the night - and one glance at the large clock perched on top of the information kiosk in the center of the room showed it to be 8:30 p.m., far too early to even partially excuse this level of quietness in the station. He nervously began to cross the empty room toward the arched doorway that led to the subway entrance, desperately wishing that he had his gun.

"Mmm, what's this?" a voice hissed from his left, accompanied by a stirring of movement in his peripheral vision. "A little emmy, all alone? Where's your off, huh? Who let a cute little thing like you cross the gate alone?"

JJ kept his eyes trained straight ahead, ignoring the slight fluttering of confusion and fear in his throat just as he ignored the voice.

"Why won't you talk to me, little emmy? You know it's rude to ignore someone who's talking to you. Hey, I'm talking to you...JJ..."

JJ froze. "How do you know my name?" he asked cautiously, his voice wavering and tense.

The figure drew closer, filling the air between them with the shrill sound of laughter. "What, are they keeping you under rocks now in the MRs?" He approached JJ, laying a hand on his shoulder before leaning and sniffing his neck. "Ah, well, it don't matter if you're stupid, little emmy. You smell good..."

JJ turned to face the figure, who, as he saw now, was a dirty young man who looked about 17 years old. He shoved him back, knocking him to the ground. "Don't touch me," he said, trying to sound threatening.

"Oh, so you're a feisty one, huh?" the young man said. "Fine, have it your way..."

JJ barely had a second to register the young man's lunge towards him before he was caught in bruisingly strong fingers and shoved against the wall, the marble sending screams of pain through his body upon impact.

The other man looked at him with eyes full of dark fury. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to wander in strange places at night?" he growled, leaning close to JJ's ear. "Good thing for me that she didn't..."

A sharp pain tore through JJ's consciousness, elicting a strangled scream from him that echoed against the vaulted ceiling of the room. His mind scrambled for a moment, trying to reconcile what was happening to him with some sort of reality. The other man had his mouth pressed against his throat, and the pain radiated out of that point of contact, sending threads of electric ache into his face and down his arm. He was vaguely aware of the utterly absurd sound of suckling just below his ear, the sound of someone drinking their soup rapidly, And look, some of it spilled, he thought, casting his gaze down to the floor, where some drops had fallen. It's so...red... He felt himself falling into a sort of warm, fuzzy dream, the absurdity of the situation seeming to fade, to be replaced with helpless complacency.

"Let him go," said a cold voice from behind them.

TBC...